Relative Speed Case 22
Rolling along, in a ball bearing's gritty world hub,
In Milky Way's knee cap,
There is a chap,
He found a skipping before, a sun of no ultraviolet,
Just grass brushed thighs. He found his eyes,
With no blurry frames and plausible what-ifs,
He is clapping for stumbles and leaps and muscles warm of use.
He looks at his surprise, at the beauty of its inevitability,
A frameless form of changed origins,
Splashing into his eyes
The everything and nothing of clichéd colors,
And our chap gazes anew with the smirk of ages, and he gives a deep bow
to the corny, for he finds old limits now beyond the last grain of a precipice
And our chap, at relative speed, alongside trucks and barns and within
Touch of the Magellanic Clouds, jots down a few lines, with the
Old judge's eyes behind his shoulders finally blind,
The case opened, no appeal.
T. J. M.